Greenhouse 4
by CrimsonHaired
Summary: Lily is in a greenhouse, basically rambling in first person about nothing in particular. Or, in other words, a sad attempt to regain a grip on my style.


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters because I am not Jo Rowling, nor am I incredible like she is.**

_Author's Note: ( For clarification, Lily is in a greenhouse, essentially digging, and rambling about whatever pops into her head. )_

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Not many people know this (and I'm fine with that), but on weekends I like to spend my spare time in the Herbology greenhouses repotting plants. I guess I keep it a secret because people would think I'm just sucking up to the teacher for a good grade, but really, I'm not. I actually like being in the greenhouses; for some reason, it gives me a sense of peace.

Maybe working with all that soil has some sort of therapeutic quality that subconsciously unwinds me. I lose myself when I'm digging around. The dirt, with its dampness, sticks to the creases in my hands, and when I flex my fingers the skin draws taut across the bones and I feel like I fit inside my body (and it's just good for a teenage girl to feel that way once in a while). More than that, when I'm working alone in the greenhouses, I sometimes get this feeling that makes the fine auburn (but almost golden) hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It's as if I've just returned to a place very familiar and dear to me after being gone for a very long time; it's that guttural feeling that says (I know it sounds laughable) 'this is home'. Although, I suppose if home is used in an adjective form, my gut is just telling me that being in the greenhouse feels instinctively right, like my entire being has jerked me over to the glass door, and the bones and tendons and muscles in my fingers turned the handle on their own accord.

When I step into the greenhouse, I always get hit with the familiar (but not quite describable) odor of damp, nutrient rich soil. I think everyone to some degree knows what soil smells like – I mean, essentially, it's all around us – but not everyone truly appreciates the aroma. For me, soil is sort of like coffee (and I don't mean I brew it). Smelling fresh soil somehow gives my cells a jumpstart, and whereas I may've been exhausted before, I'm suddenly reenergized. There's something pure about soil, something peaceful, so when I'm stressed I sometimes like to (don't laugh) pretend that I'm a tree. I know it sounds stupid, but I'm serious. The idea of being cemented firmly in the ground (possibly for hundreds of years) is a comfort to me, and I can imagine myself lifting my arms (or, in perspective, limbs) up to the sky and soaking in the sun and basking in the breeze on a not-too-hot summer day.

I've always wondered what other people think about when they're stressed (especially around exam time). I doubt they imagine themselves as trees, or even bushes for that matter (because I think this is strictly a Lily Evans thing). But I honestly do wonder, even if people think I'm too much of a bookworm and have minimal compassion for the human spirit. I do care, but I can care in overbearing amounts and must pull myself back, and I worry that perhaps I pull back too much and people don't understand that beneath what book knowledge I have (which in comparison to Headmaster Dumbledore is a staggeringly small amount) I'm a person with feelings. And just because I'm supposedly smart doesn't mean that these things should go ignored; and just because I'm supposedly 'well-liked' doesn't mean that I've got any real friends besides these plants.

The dirt doesn't like to come out from beneath my fingernails, no matter how hard I scrub. I think Remus Lupin is the only one that notices, because I've seen him look at my hands in a way that isn't exactly stealthy, but it's clear that he doesn't want me to notice that he's noticed. He is the reason I said 'not many people' know I knead my hands in dirt on the weekends. He doesn't say anything about it, of course, because he's much too shy (or is he just too mature?) to say something like that, to anyone, because I wouldn't flatter myself (or would I?) to think he'd feel particularly flustered around me.

Although sometimes I do wonder what it'd be like to dig in the dirt with Remus. He has the most exquisite hands that are beautiful in a painful sort of way because I find myself wishing that the rest of him would act the way his hands do (that is, confidant). I can image sifting my hands through a pot of damp soil and brushing against his fingertips. I'd glance at him, but he wouldn't look at me (because he'd be turning a most embarrassed shade of scarlet). And then I'd say something witty, or perhaps even clever, and then maybe he'd come (for once!) unarmed and let me see the real Remus that hides behind all of his grave seriousness. I think (I know!) I'd like to see that before I die. Perhaps more than anything (even the very rarest of rain forest plants).


End file.
